


Prisoners (Here Of Our Own Device)

by Radioluminescence



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Creepy, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, M/M, Minor Injuries, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23752777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence
Summary: An exploration of what might’ve happened when Getaway and his mutineers cornered the Protectobots (First Aid, specifically).
Relationships: First Aid/Getaway (Transformers)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Prisoners (Here Of Our Own Device)

**Author's Note:**

> Working title: “Can’t Getaway”  
> No beta! We die like men.

The skirmish breaks out in a flash of colour and sound. A shot splits through the smoke, puncturing his leg. The momentum he’d accumulated while running is conserved, causing him to crash down to the ground. His faceplate swallows his cry.

His vision swims. He looks up in time to see a direct hit on Hot Spot that sprays energon out. They hit an exposed line; it must be painful. His medic coding onlines, surfacing just as the last of the mutineers turn the corner, led by Getaway. A shower of blasts hit the ground, forcing Mirage and the Protectobots down to reduce the risk of being hit.

Another hit on First Aid, this time his heel. He goes down hard after losing his balance, placing too much weight on his wrist joint in the process. 

He reroutes his nerve circuits away from his lower half. They’re shooting to incapacitate, not to kill. That realization gives him the courage to dart forward, head ducked down to reduce the chances of being hit. Hot Spot must see him, and reaches out. Blades kneels behind him, firing back without much accuracy. His left half is a mangled mess of blackened wires.

“We can’t stay here,” First Aid says. He flinches as a shot just misses his shoulder. He presses himself down, giving his hand to Blades. “Lean on me and we’ll make a run for the shuttle bay.”

“There’s no point!” shouts Mirage, somewhere in front of them. He has to articulate just to be heard over the blasters. “Our ship is in ruins.”

“We have to try!” replies First Aid. The pressure he’s applying to Blades’ wounds won’t stop the bleeding, but he doesn’t have the tools or the time to do a proper patch job. 

He tries to coax Blades onto his feet, but by then Getaway’s crew has cut through their defence. They can’t make it more than a few lengths forward before they start succumbing to their injuries. It slows down their progress, which lets their opponents advance on them. Streetwise is the next to sustain a heavy blow to one of his wheels, forcing him to transform out of his alt-mode.

The situation weighs on his conscience, demanding a judgement call based on their chances of survival. He can’t see them making it to the shuttle, let alone launching in the condition they’re in. The futility of it all becomes apparent. With each shot they absorb, the more the group disassembles into chaos. They’re not aiming anymore, they’re just trying to ward potential threats away.

Luckily, Getaway makes for the decision for him. He surfaces from behind the front line and nabs Hot Spot from where he’s lying on the ground, trying to vent. He brandishes a gun and grinds the barrel of it into Hot Spot’s head. The other hand rises, herding his men back.

“Shoot and I kill him,” he announces. His voice echoes and warbles, travelling down the hall and into the airlock. The Protectobots stop before him, in various stages of disrepair. Blades quivers beside him. Smoke continues to plume from his injured arm.

Getaway’s hand shakes with just enough conviction to make First Aid fear his loose trigger finger will finish what he’s started. 

Careful not to make any sudden movements, First Aid rises up. “Getaway, please don’t--”

Getaway’s optics narrow. “You heard me. Drop your weapons. Hands up.”

First Aid glances back at his group, all of whom are looking at him for guidance.

He drops his pistol. It emits a loud clunk when it makes contact with the floor. A chorus follows suit, under Getaway’s optic. 

Getaway waits for the group to disarm themselves, then beckons Ammo and Powerflash forward.

“Search them, make them cough up anything in subspace.”

His minions round up the team, breaking them into two groups of three and proceeding from there. The stench of electrical burns cloaks the air around them. 

Getaway crowns the group, with a stance that hikes his shoulders up high. First Aid catches his optic as he scans the group, prompting him to walk over.

“Look at you,” he says, shaking his head. “Look at how unnecessary this was.”

First Aid dims his visor. “Unnecessary? What did you think was going to happen?”

Getaway rests a hand on his hip. “I expected you to have some common sense. Leaving the ship without your captain’s permission, really?” His bouncy cadences add insult to injury. Beside him, Atomizer cocks his gun in what First Aid would call a threatening gesture.

First Aid looks to the side. The sound of scraping metal is none other than Streetwise, who is being dragged forward by his arms.

“And to think you said you trusted me. I’m hurt, ‘Aid. I really aim.” Getaway continues to talk, one hand splayed over his spark chamber when First Aid looks back. 

“Trust needs to be earned.” He throws Ratchet’s words back at him. “Put Streetwise down. You don’t need to do this.”

“Oh, I agree--on the trust thing,” he clarifies. “And for that reason, you know I can’t let you go.”

First Aid tenses his circuits. He’d figured.

Getaway backs up, twirling the weapon in his hand. “Sorry. Thought I’d clear the air, seeing as this is usually about the time you start begging to be let go; the whole spiel about promising not to say anything about what’s happened.”

“It didn’t cross my mind,” says First Aid.

“That’s because you’re smarter than most. It’s what makes you so dangerous.” He rolls his wrist, beckoning his followers to come forward. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

Before First Aid can ask what he means, Getaway addresses the mutineers. “Round them up, keep them apart.”

First Aid sees the mechs advancing on them and panics. There isn’t a face in the room that assuages his worries about being on the receiving end of a pistol. 

“There’s no point in killing us,” he says, so fast that his words jumble.

Getaway dips his helm. “Kill you? Oh come on, why would I do that? It’d be a waste.”

He comes too close for comfort, but Atomizer is right behind First Aid and won’t give him the decency of personal space. Every twitch of his makes Atmozier’s grip stronger.

“Not to knock Hoist’s work--the guy’s got a knack for it--but I’m not going to turn down another medic in my employ, especially not one so qualified,” says Getaway, oblivious to First Aid’s discomfort.

“You want me to work for you?” He doesn’t bother to hide the disbelief in his tone.

“Sure, why not. That’s what medics are supposed to do, right?”

Hot air billows out from First Aid’s vents. “I’ve worked for one homicidal maniac before. I’m not looking for a repeat performance.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“What, you’re going to shackle me to the medibay?” He resets his vocalizer to clear the feedback. “Consider this a last-ditch plea, for the sake of your sanity. You can’t be that stupid.”

If Getaway wasn’t wearing a faceplate, he would probably be smiling wide. Instead of answering, he produces a gun.

“You’re familiar with what the nudge gun does now, I presume?” he says. “Nothing like it out there. One shot is all it takes.”

He presses it to First Aid’s head. It’s hot.

“One shot,” he repeats. “One and you’re back in the medibay, none the wiser. This time with the twenty-five accounted for and a good cover story for our coma patient.”

Something passes over Getaway; a rogue thought, something opaque. It makes his whole body perk up.

“Or, listen to this. Even better, I could just put you in the same loop. How about that? A continuation of your welcome here, for as long as I see fit. Until we know what to do with you.” He gives himself a second, tapping a finger under his chin. “Yeah. Might just do that.”

He walks away, ignoring First Aid’s pleas. Hot Spot is closest by, pinned down by two mechs. As Getaway nears, his behaviour becomes more erratic. 

First Aid tries to stand up, but is pushed to the ground. “Getaway! Stop!”

It has no effect. One loud pulse from the gun and Hot Spot crumples.

“Take him to Froid,” says Getaway, refusing to look at his handiwork. He’s already moving on.

Mirage is next. The blue mech puts up more of a fight, testing his bonds with kicks and bites. One of Hot Spot’s handlers has to abandon the body and come back to help with the effort. Getaway waits on the sidelines. His patience does not falter, and he only makes his way over once the situation is under control.

A full body shiver works its way through First Aid as he sees Mirage’s body cave in under a flash of white. He stops looking then, forced to hear Rook plead for his life without the accompanying visual feed.

Getaway repeats the process on the remainder of the group, leaving First Aid until the end. The Protectobots are removed from the room, leaving energon skids behind them as they’re dragged. He feels more defenceless now than he did when his weapon was confiscated. With no allies on his flank, he’s the one obstacle that stands between Getaway and complete control over the ship.

Getaway takes his time coming back, pronouncing his steps as he walks.

“You were so loyal to me back then. It didn’t even take that big of a nudge to get you to pledge your allegiance to the cause.” He squats before First Aid. “A shame.”

First Aid grits his denta, staring down at the floor. “Just get it over with.”

“You’re not the one in charge; you don’t give me orders.” 

He uses his gun to tip First Aid’s chin up.

“I’d be optimistic if I were you. Quite frankly, you might be happier once we’re over this.”

“There is no ‘we.’ Don’t pretend like you’re doing this for anything but your own ego.”

The barrel pushes his chin up higher, until his neck is straining. The cables are on full display. He briefly entertains the idea of throwing his head to the side to escape it, if only to shake Getaway’s gaze.

“Oh, loyal, dependable First Aid,” Getaway hums. “This is my ship, and you are part of my crew. I can do with you what I like.”

He drops the gun, walking around First Aid and out of his peripheral vision. His hand drops to First Aid’s shoulder and follows the curve of his back, making the medic’s fuel pump clench.

“Where are you going?” First Aid asks. He reminds himself of the laser scalpel embedded into his arm that they hadn’t cut out. If he’s about to get shot in the back of the head, it’s still an option.

“I overheard you and Blades talking when you first arrived. You got here sounding suspicious, but I could tell you were only doing it out of protocol. You know, scary situation, new people, old surroundings--that sort of deal. I get it. I understand.”

“Your point?”

“You trusted me. That’s where we begin. We go back to that, and it’s as if nothing of this ever happened.” His voice switches to First Aid’s right audial as he moves around him. “But there’s more to it than that. If I ask super nicely, chances are we could do more than just forget this whole thing happened.”

Getaway comes back into view.

“I _really_ don’t want to put you in a loop unless it’s absolutely necessary, but a few false memories couldn’t hurt. If you won’t trust me, then all I have to do is make sure you don’t trust Rodimus. It balances it all out.”

“What--”

“You remember Chromedome? Wait. What am I saying? Of course you do. The _Mnemosurgeon_.” He waves his one hand, dropping his voice and adopting a mock-spooky tone. “The scary M. Turns out, it’s useful for more than one thing.”

He leans in, optics gleaming in the low light. “Imagine yourself waking up with your trust in me restored. I could make you think anything, but,” he leans in, “I think complete and utter devotion to me is a good starting point, yes? Maybe more than that?”

He fingers the catch that connects to First Aid’s mouthplate, looking as though he’s going to manually trigger the release. It doesn’t linger, passing down the side until he's holding First Aid’s head and forcing him to look up. His captor’s optics glint with sick pleasure.

He almost forgets how to vent. Finding the brain modules suspended in engex was enough to convince him of the gravity of the situation, but it only partially conveyed the depth of Getaway’s madness. He refuses to think much deeper than the implication that Getaway takes pleasure at the thought of scooping out and replacing his memories, if only to preserve what’s left of his hope.

It’s a struggle to put it into words. “You can force me to think whatever you want, but you’ll never manage to make me loyal to you,” he says, hoping it sounds stronger than what he’s hearing.

“Oh ‘Aid, I have all the time in the world to _make_ you loyal.” He throws his shoulders back. “That’s the fun part! I can screw up as many times as it takes, but you won’t know. If it takes two tries, ten tries, whatever. So be it. You’ll thank me in the end.”

Fear stabs him. “You’re a psychopath! I can’t believe I’m even humouring you.”

Getaway cocks the nudge gun, aiming it at his head. “You don’t really have much of a choice.”

He fires.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
